April

“Help me, God,” he muttered under his breath as he wiped his clean-shaven face with large hands. Eddie knew he hadn’t lost his mind. Hadn’t the county shrink declared him fit to stand trial? Branded with a diagnosis of antisocial personality disorder, Eddie had languished in lockup since last year, awaiting trial. He had also, inexplicably to him, been declared a flight risk, when in fact he had no money, not even a car. He couldn’t make bail. When he was a young teen, he had spent time in juvenile detention for such offenses as panhandling, wandering around without proper ID, trespassing, and the like. But this was so different. It was, his lawyer had told him, deadly serious. He may have ASPD, but still he would face the music for his most serious alleged misdeed yet: rape.

Her name was April. She was beautiful, with long, supple, athletic legs and blond tresses that spilled down past her shoulders and ample breasts. She had a bronzed, radiant complexion from basking under the Georgia sun for all the world to see. Eddie had spied her clandestinely many times but had been afraid to approach her. She lived four houses down from him, in a large, two story home that was painted dark blue and was known throughout the neighborhood as the Blue House. Her parents were attorneys or something, and away a lot.

Eddie wasn’t clever with words and didn’t know how to be cool with a woman the way his friends could. In her yard, April wore a string bikini that showed darn near everything, almost revealing her private parts. This made Eddie uncomfortable at first, but he overcame his discomfort as he got to know her. Unlike most people he knew, April talked to him, not at him, and asked him about his life and what he liked to do when he wasn’t working at the restaurant where she also worked. So at first he made stuff up to make himself sound more interesting. He liked to skydive and hunt bears in the wild, he told her. She told him she didn’t like guns or hunting, and he told her he wouldn’t do it anymore. As he grew to know her better, Eddie came clean and told April that he didn’t know how to skydive and didn’t even own a gun, much less hunt.

“I knew you were fibbing, Eddie,” she said with that laugh that sounded like ice tinkling in a glass. April wore pale pink lipstick on her rosebud lips. Eddie loved her lips and longed to kiss them. He’d never kissed a woman other than Aunt Trudy, with whom he lived. April might have thought there was something wrong with him because he didn’t really know how to kiss, but no. She was patient with him; she showed him how to pucker his lips, lean into the kiss, and relax.

“Put your arms around me, Eddie. Put your hands on my hips; that’s right.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he protested. She laughed, but not at him.

“I’m not made of glass,” she told him. He took a great breath. He instinctively trusted her. Unlike a lot of the people Eddie had met, April hadn’t a mean bone in her body. Other people called him retard or stupid, and made him feel ashamed. She liked Eddie; he could tell. And he was soon crazy in love with her. They began to spend long hours together when they weren’t working and when April wasn’t in school. She told Eddie that she worked hard at her studies.

“I don’t want to work in a restaurant my whole life,” she said. Neither did Eddie, but he’d worked there for ten years, since he was sixteen, and had dropped out of the special school; he didn’t know what else he might do. April encouraged him to become a student like her, but he didn’t know. He’d never been that bright in school. Always self-effacing, he repeatedly put himself down.

“You’re not stupid!” she told him pointedly, almost losing her temper.

“But you study calculus. I can barely do fractions,” he replied honestly.

“Go to the library and get a book on math, and we’ll work on it together,” she insisted. “I’ll prove you’re smart.” So he did, and it worked out beautifully. Before he knew it, she was teaching him algebra. Eventually, Eddie’s feelings towards April began to evolve; he became more focused on her, more possessive, and more committed. He discovered, to his surprise, that he wanted a life with this wonderful woman. Best of all, she seemed to feel the same way.

“Oh, Eddie, I can’t wait to make love to you,” she said unexpectedly one day after work. They were alone in her bedroom at the Blue House and, following her shower, she wore nothing but a thin robe, green like her eyes, Eddie flushed, embarrassed but in the same frame of mind. Eddie, of course, had never made love to anyone. What if he couldn’t do it? he wondered. All those ads on TV about ED and everything. Maybe, he thought, he should get some pills, but he’d be too embarrassed to ask for them. What if he let April down? He wouldn’t be able to live with himself. He’d have to quit his job at the restaurant and hide away in shame. He began to hyperventilate. April touched his arm. Her hand felt warm.

“I think you’d make a wonderful lover, Eddie,” she told him. She looked straight into his eyes, and again, he believed her.

“Have you ever…” he began.

She smiled. “Of course,” she said gently. He stared at her in awe. “Eddie, I’ll teach you everything I know. “It’ll be like the fractions,” she said lightly. “Only more fun.” Whatever April told him, Eddie believed.

During his time in jail, men had approached him and wanted to have sex with him, but Eddie was a large man and very strong. So far, they had kept their distance. Most of the time he was kept in solitary because of the seething hatred the other inmates had for rapists. How were they any better? he wondered. In lockup, Eddie wasn’t called by his name but rather “chomo,” whatever that was supposed to mean.

Finally, one afternoon, they did it—they made love in April’s bed. Eddie had been afraid to reveal his body, feeling self-conscious about his appearance, but April was impressed with his physique.

“Ooh, Eddie, you have a fantastic body,” said April with a delighted squeal, running her hand down his chest. Eddie had lifted weights for ten years because he liked to be strong, but he had never thought much about how he looked. He smiled. April was a skilled lover, thought Eddie. She knew just what to do; she never hurried him, and their bodies melded into one. She was like a force of nature. This was but the first of many times.

It all came to a tragic end one day when Eliza, a friend of April’s, entered the Blue House uninvited and stole up the stairs to April’s bedroom. There she spotted the two lovers, wrapped in each other’s arms and fast asleep. Soon, a tender secret became town gossip and then common knowledge. April’s parents were stunned. Authorities were summoned, an arrest made and charges filed.. Eddie, impoverished, was accorded only a public defender.

So Eddie had spent the ensuing nine months locked away in jail, awaiting trial, his aunt and his attorney his only visitors. He stood in his cell, his large, powerful fists rigidly gripping the bars. He hadn’t known that what he was doing was wrong. To him it had been about love. His mind drifted back to April; the worst part of his incarceration was his isolation from the woman that he adored. Just two days from now, he knew, would be April’s birthday; she would then turn seventeen. Eddie had never before even heard of statutory rape.

…

(B)

See Life In Your Own Way

(i)

Deceptions try permeating my sub-conscious like a virus

Ugly events want to make me dance bad circus

I choose to see myself as the citrus

That grows in the field of peace

Never caught up by the weeds of disease

I’m hooked with creativity through my ability

To express my service to humanity

I see life my own way

Decided not to be in dis-array

It doesn’t matter the name;

Whose distraction is giving him the fame

For I know that’s his game

(ii)

I’m out for the money

but not down with the honeys

because they are monkeys

pretending to be like good mummies

I’m ahead of my time like time

That’s why  you don’t see me all the time

That’s the way I see it…My own way

So, see life in your own way!

Fault Lines

You talk like a waterfall. I’m lumbering

down rain. The plane of broken water toward

shame I do not feel. Your pain defines me.

Climbs down the fall to the splintered

pool I grab with both hands.

You blister my defeat with repetition.

You repeat my insignificance. I dissolve.

I hold my ears. I hold my own. Stones appear

as smattering blades of rain. Gainshares 

plummet. No runnels here. I hear your flint

voice voicing trauma you will never hold.

It’s cold again from here. You catch a spear

and wield what wildness might have glowed ago.

Simmering with strain. Fault lines beneath the strain.

Enclosed

Enclosed, we outlive our closeness. Beyond

the perpendicular pronoun. Warm we, 

second person plural, a better answer 

to the restaurant host’s “Just one?” The 

hungry body needs to lose itself, 

without strangling dangling participial 

others thirsty for speakeasy taunts, as if 

proximity meant all one, Alwun House,

a performance space in our western village 

bloated with population. In twos, shucking 

the status of MVP, a threnody 

before the spotlight on one deemed ideal 

for the role of icon according to

the ministry of prey, overcast 

with envy to carry forward an urgent,  

inextinguishable senseless oneness.

Recidivist

I’m on my way to taint the glyphs on trees. Freeze frame light of day. Board the traipse-mobile and go away (I’m on my way). Cliffs splay clipboards at play. Way north of gerunding, God willing. Recidivist splay. Rebel against the gains on hilltops retrieved.  A reprieve. Scope sequenced to fault the slow learn. Slow burn fallen (through). Who teaches you, the few. I wrap my head around the wrap around my head. 

Trawling the score named evermore, free lit freeway, smell of hay

Underpainting

Braille hums 

haptic heft, a fuse

lurking around 

future romp. Pomp 

and cirque-de-soleil.

Summer gardens

opaque with shine.

Toots Kinsky matte

finish. Surface gloss 

gone tame. Outer 

glass rough with 

source code grains.

With / Draw / All

With. 

Draw. All

morning. 

Raw

mourning. A longing. 

ensconced in 

brother 

broth once 

fair-minded, now

un-

mended 

sweat on brow.

Practiced 

preach. Long-

sleeved feral. 

skeet 

shot blood

on window

missing 

target by way

of cheap wheels.

Husbandry

Roller coast me close

to breeze viatical (remember

expectation. Bluebottle dit 

dot (pairs sans need 

(pared just enough 

for early breath. Shaped

pear pearl lid plot 

half 

injurious day-

glow (run from

penury (slow 

return to place-

based pain). Stain-

cropped (drum

plain page boy 

buoys no sprite

Just spit 

(split lip

Sheila E. Murphy. Appeared in Fortnightly Review, Poetry, Hanging Loose, others. Forthcoming: Escritoire (Lavender Ink). Permission to Relax (BlazeVOX Books, 2023). Gertrude Stein Poetry Award for Letters to Unfinished J. (Green Integer Press, 2003). Hay(ha)ku Book Prize for Reporting Live From You Know Where (Meritage Press, 2018).

Her Wikipedia page can be found at: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sheila_Murphy

Rampant

A dream of flower ridden blossom

The wavering chaos of the river run high

I escaped the drugged wish

Of melancholic numbness around me

The slit throated sky high buildings

Of consumer care and globalized madness

The sip of soma is adjacent

Life’s little brittle mystery of strange alteration

A camphor of village ridden blush

The boat ride of everyday coming port

A slush for the modesty of eavesdropping sickness

Till the city learners the indoors of passion

The burning ghat still flames high

As the coming and going to this world is rampant

As poetic reverie bemused in silence.

Humanitarian Crisis in Gaza: The UN’s Role in Preventing Mass Atrocities

The humanitarian catastrophe unfolding in Gaza is one of the most harrowing tragedies of our time. Since October 2023, relentless bombardments, blockades, and mass displacements have turned Gaza into an open-air graveyard. Thousands of innocent Palestinians—many of them women and children—have been killed, while millions face starvation, disease, and psychological trauma. The systematic targeting of civilians, infrastructure, and medical facilities raises serious allegations of genocide under international law.

Yet, amid this devastation, the United Nations (UN)—an institution founded to prevent such atrocities—has largely remained a spectator, issuing resolutions that lack enforcement power. The situation in Gaza not only exposes the failures of global diplomacy but also questions the credibility of international institutions meant to safeguard human rights.

Genocide, as defined by the UN Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide (1948), includes acts intended to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnic, racial, or religious group. Israel’s military campaign in Gaza—marked by indiscriminate bombings, mass killings, targeted starvation, and forced displacement—fits this definition.

The International Court of Justice (ICJ) has acknowledged that South Africa’s genocide case against Israel has merit, leading to a provisional ruling demanding Israel take steps to prevent genocidal acts. However, the killings have not stopped. Instead, the assault on Gaza has intensified, with humanitarian aid being blocked and civilian infrastructure being destroyed.

The UN was founded in the aftermath of World War-II to ensure that such atrocities never happen again. However, when it comes to Gaza, the UN has been unable to enforce its own mandates. Notwithstanding, history shows that the UN has, in certain cases, played a crucial role in stopping genocides and war crimes. From Bosnia to Rwanda, the UN has intervened—sometimes successfully, sometimes too late. The question today is: can the UN still fulfill its mandate and eventually stop the genocide in Gaza?

While the UN has often been criticized for inaction, there have been instances where it successfully played a role in halting genocidal violence. These examples provide lessons for Gaza.

Bosnia (1995): UN Peacekeeping and International Justice

During the Bosnian War, the UN initially failed to prevent the massacre of over 8,000 Bosniak people in Srebrenica. However, after global pressure, NATO—under a UN mandate—intervened with airstrikes, leading to the end of the war. The International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY) later prosecuted those responsible, holding key figures accountable for war crimes and genocide.

Lesson for Gaza: The UN, despite its slow response, was able to rally international action against genocide. A similar decisive approach, including sanctions and military deterrence, could force Israel to halt its actions.

Rwanda (1994): A Late but Important Intervention

The Rwandan Genocide, where over 800,000 Tutsis were slaughtered, remains one of the UN’s worst failures. However, after the genocide, the UN established the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda (ICTR), which successfully tried and convicted genocide perpetrators. The UN also played a role in rebuilding Rwanda, ensuring long-term stability.

Lesson for Gaza: Justice delayed is not justice denied. The UN must start preparing for accountability measures now, ensuring that those responsible for war crimes in Gaza face prosecution.

East Timor (1999): UN-Led Independence and Peacekeeping

When Indonesia’s military-backed militias unleashed violence in East Timor after its independence vote, the UN intervened with peacekeeping forces (INTERFET). The mission successfully stabilized the region, ending the violence and paving the way for East Timor’s full independence.

Lesson for Gaza: A UN-led peacekeeping mission, with support from the international community, could ensure the long-term protection of Palestinians and prevent future genocidal acts.

Why has the UN failed in Gaza so far? Despite these past successes, the UN has not been able to stop Israel’s military campaign in Gaza. Several factors are responsible to this failure:

Security Council Paralysis: The UN Security Council (UNSC) is responsible for maintaining international peace and security. However, due to the veto power of permanent members, particularly the United States, resolutions calling for a ceasefire in Gaza have been repeatedly blocked. The US, a staunch ally of Israel, has used its veto multiple times to shield Israel from international accountability. This has paralyzed the UN from taking decisive action, allowing the genocide to continue unchecked.

General Assembly’s Limited Power: Unlike the UNSC (United Nations Security Council), the UN General Assembly (UNGA) cannot enforce its resolutions. It has passed multiple resolutions condemning Israel’s actions and calling for a ceasefire, but these have had no impact on the ground. The lack of enforcement mechanisms renders the UNGA largely symbolic in this crisis.

Failure to Implement ICJ Rulings: The ICJ’s ruling on genocide prevention should have led to immediate global intervention. However, Israel has ignored the ruling, and its allies continue to supply it with weapons. The UN lacks the ability to ensure compliance with its own judicial system, further eroding its authority.

The Ineffectiveness of UN Agencies: UN agencies like UNRWA (United Nations Relief and Works Agency) have been crucial in providing humanitarian aid to Palestinians. However, Israel and its allies have systematically undermined these efforts, with many countries suspending funding to UNRWA based on unverified allegations. This has worsened the humanitariancrisis, leaving millions of Gazans without food, water, and medical care.

The Gaza genocide exposes the double standards in global governance. When Russia invaded Ukraine, the international community responded with sanctions, military aid to Ukraine, and a strong diplomatic stance. In contrast, Israel’s actions in Gaza are met with muted criticism and continued military support from Western nations. This hypocrisy has further discredited the UN and weakened trust in international institutions. If genocide can occur in Gaza with impunity, what message does this send to other aggressors worldwide?

While the UN’s failures are glaring, the crisis in Gaza has mobilized global civil society, human rights organizations, and progressive governments. Here’s what must be done to end the genocide and restore the credibility of international institutions:

Reforming the UN Security Council: The UNSC’s structure, where five permanent members hold veto power, is outdated and undemocratic. Reforming this system is essential to ensure that no single nation can block humanitarianinterventions. Countries from the Global South, including Bangladesh, must push for a more balanced and representative international order.

Enforcing ICJ Rulings: If the ICJ has ruled that Israel must prevent genocide, there should be international mechanisms to enforce this decision. Sanctions, arms embargoes, and diplomatic isolation should be imposed on Israel until it complies with international law.

Strengthening the Role of the Global South: Western nations have failed to hold Israel accountable, but the Global South has shown increasing resistance to these double standards. Organizations like BRICS, the African Union, and the Organization of Islamic Cooperation (OIC) must take the lead in pressuring the UN for decisive action. Bangladesh, as a vocal supporter of Palestinian rights, should strengthen its diplomatic efforts in this regard.

Holding War Criminals Accountable: Israeli leaders responsible for war crimes should be tried at the International Criminal Court (ICC). If justice is selective, international law loses its legitimacy. Civil society groups must continue documenting war crimes to ensure accountability in the future.

The genocide in Gaza is not just a humanitariancrisis—it is a test of humanity’s moral compass. If the UN fails to act, it risks losing its credibility as a guardian of peace and human rights. Past interventions in Bosnia, Rwanda, and East Timor show that the UN can stop genocide when there is political will.

Now, the world must demand that the UN does the same for Gaza. Sanctions, accountability measures, and a UN peacekeeping mission could help end the atrocities. If the UN remains silent, it will not only fail the people of Palestine but also set a dangerous precedent for future genocides worldwide.

Moreover, governments, civil society, and individuals must work together to demand an end to genocide, ensure accountability, and rebuild a world where international law is respected—not selectively enforced.

Gaza’s innocent children deserve to live. The people of Palestine deserve freedom. And the world deserves a United Nations that stands for justice—not power politics. The time for action is now. The UN must choose: uphold its founding principles or become an institution of empty words.

Emran Emon is an eminent South Asian writer, journalist and columnist. He can be reached at emoncolumnist@gmail.com

A dream… When people hear this word, it sometimes brings joy to their faces, while at other times, it evokes deep sighs and regret. This is because as long as a person lives, they dream. They set goals, take steps toward them, strive, and work hard. Sometimes, fate grants them the fulfillment of their dreams, and sometimes, those dreams remain as mere wishes—unfulfilled and lost in time.

Since my youth, I, too, have had dreams—visions that guided me, inspired me, and fueled my determination. I have worked tirelessly to achieve them, pouring my energy into every step forward. Dreams have the power to elevate a person, to make them feel like they rule the world, to transport them into a realm as magical as Alice’s Wonderland, where everything seems possible. Even now, I continue to chase my dreams—I study, I strive, I push forward.

Some of my dreams were born in childhood, while others emerged during my teenage years. I am grateful for those I have achieved. Of course, not all dreams are easy to reach. Some may seem utterly impossible, as if fate itself has placed an insurmountable barrier in the way. But no matter how difficult it may seem, one must never surrender. One must never give up.

Because a dream, no matter how distant, is always worth the pursuit.

I, too, have lived chasing my dreams. Yet, those unfulfilled dreams still linger in my heart, my thoughts, and my mind—like distant peaks with no way to reach them.

When I shared my dreams with my parents and loved ones, I often heard discouraging words: “That is impossible,” “It doesn’t suit you,” “It’s not appropriate for our culture,” or “A girl should not pursue such a path.” I faced resistance and opposition.

One of the dreams that turned into a mirage was my deep desire to enter the military. My passion for this field began when I was in school. I was so captivated by the idea of serving in the military that I often imagined myself in uniform, standing in formation, marching with pride, singing military anthems, and taking an oath with unwavering determination. I could see myself walking with honor and discipline among my fellow soldiers.

When the time came and people asked, “What career do you want to pursue?” I confidently answered, “I want to become a soldier.” I had planned to apply to a military academy after finishing school. But, unfortunately, I was met with strong opposition and countless restrictions.

Even then, I refused to give up. I didn’t want to surrender my dream so easily. I graduated from school and began preparing my application, determined to fight for my place in the field I loved. Yet, once again, I found myself under immense pressure—barriers I could not break through. In the end, I was forced to choose a different path. My dream, once vivid and full of life, faded into a distant mirage. And with deep regret, I buried it in the depths of my heart.

But that was not my only dream. There were others—many others. And for them, I have studied, worked hard, and pushed forward. Some I have achieved, while others have slipped through my grasp, turning into mirages just like my military dream.

Yet, I refuse to stop dreaming. I continue to strive toward my future aspirations with the firm belief that I will succeed. There are still so many dreams ahead of me, waiting to be turned into reality.

Lalezar Orinbaeva was born in 2003 in the Turtkul district of the Republic of Karakalpakstan. She is of Turkmen nationality. In 2021, she became a student at the Faculty of Primary Education at the Tashkent University of Applied Sciences in Tashkent. She is an ambassador for three international organizations and a member of one international organization. Her creative works have been published in Kenya, Germany, Albania, Azerbaijan, Russia, Belarus, and several other foreign countries, and are indexed on Google. She is the recipient of various international certificates. She has also founded her personal “Anthology”. Lalezar is a holder of international medals, statuettes, diplomas, certificates, and invitations. She is a professional curator of Dreams That Turned Into a Mirage.

Curious, I consulted a psychic who confirmed what my chart had suggested: that my family had endured shame rooted in a past event—something that happened long before I was born. I couldn’t shake the feeling that my writing was somehow tied to this revelation. So I asked my father about our lineage, and he quietly shared a difficult truth: that his great-grandfather was a Dutch slave master, and his great-grandmother had been an enslaved woman in his household. He directed me to his eldest sister, Aunt Daphne, for more.

Aunt Daphne told me what little she knew about “the Dutchman”—that he was both a pastor and a Justice of the Peace, and that his name was Cornelius. The moment she said his name, I froze. Cornelius was the name of the grandfather pastor in the story I had written all those years ago. I had even described his favorite candy as licorice—a detail that, to my surprise, is a traditional Dutch treat.
It was in that moment I realized I hadn’t written a work of fiction after all—I had written a remembrance. My hands had merely transcribed what my spirit already knew.

That was when I knew this story wasn’t meant to stay on a hard drive. It was meant to be shared—both as an act of remembrance and as a tool for healing. The research wasn’t traditional, but it was guided—by dreams, divination, and a deep listening to my lineage.

Question #2:How much of this book is from your ancestry and how much is made up?

To be perfectly honest, I’m not entirely sure where memory ends and imagination begins. When I first began writing Leaves From the Vine, I had no conscious knowledge of what I was channeling. It wasn’t until I later explored my family’s history that I began to see startling
parallels—details in the story that echoed my great-great-grandfather’s life and the legacy of his descendants.

That’s why the imagery is somewhat elusive, set in a quiet town “in the middle of nowhere,” a place that could be anywhere—or nowhere at all. It reflects that sense of mystery and ancestral whispering.
What I did craft intentionally was the dialogue, the rhythm of the language, the emotional texture. I used artistic license to shape the tone—infusing it with wit, symbolism, and sentiment.

And while the story is deeply rooted in family lineage, I also chose to include something profoundly personal in the Afterword: the Invocation for Sacred Sexual Embodiment (from the Ascension Glossary). That was my offering—a healing remedy for those navigating sexual trauma. While that part isn’t inherited from my ancestry, it’s a conscious and heartfelt contribution to the legacy of healing.

Question#3: How do you think people reconciled being people of faith, and even pastors with being slave owners and perpetuating injustice?

I’m not sure they ever truly had to reconcile it—at least not in a way that disturbed their sense of righteousness. Many slaveholders, including pastors, used scripture—like Ephesians 6:5—to justify the institution of slavery. Verses such as “Slaves, obey your earthly masters with respect and fear…” were interpreted literally, providing a moral and religious rationale for what was, in truth, a deep injustice.

But faith without compassion becomes blind obedience. And privilege, when left unchecked, can distort one’s understanding of justice and mercy. In many cases, those in power may have believed themselves to be the ones under threat—viewing any resistance from the enslaved as rebellion rather than a cry for freedom.

This perception of fear allowed them to see themselves not as oppressors, but as protectors of order, which further reinforced their actions. It’s a painful paradox: using faith as a shield to avoid reckoning with cruelty. And yet, it’s this very contradiction that makes the truth so vital to examine today—with humility, not blame.

Question #4: How do you think it’s possible to break generational curses or generational patterns of course dysfunctional behavior?

Breaking generational curses isn’t just about changing behavior—it’s about transforming identity at the root. We must approach healing as an act of Identity Alchemy, a sacred process of rewriting the unconscious contracts we’ve inherited.

First, we must Expose the Ancestral Root—identify the patterns that have been passed down, the pain that still echoes through our choices, and the beliefs we didn’t even know we adopted.

Then we Shock the Pattern with Radical Reversal. That means doing the opposite of what the curse expects—speaking the truth where silence ruled, choosing joy where shame lingered, or creating boundaries where chaos thrived.

Next, we Implant a Future Memory by consciously visualizing and anchoring a new narrative—one where we are free, whole, and deeply loved. The subconscious doesn’t know the difference between memory and imagination, so we use that to our advantage.

We then Sever the Quantum Energy Cords, energetically and emotionally cutting ties with the trauma and limitations that no longer serve us. We release the old without fear. Finally, we Embody the One Who Was Never Bound—our truest, most divine self. This is the
version of us who lives not from pain, but from power. Who walks not in shame, but in sovereignty.

This is how we heal—not just for ourselves, but for those who came before us and those yet to be born.

Question #5: Did your ancestors ever repent of enslaving people and how might we begin to heal that wound as a country?

Yes (my great- great -grandfather)—he’s repenting through me, his descendant, his soul-scribe. Through my voice, he’s asking for forgiveness. He’s sorry for abusing his power and manipulating his privilege to oppress others. He now understands—through my own
suffering—that in enslaving others, he also enslaved himself: to greed, to ego, to the seduction of control.

He became a prisoner to the very forces he thought he controlled. A prisoner to fear, to lust, to legacy. Slavery robbed his victims of their freedom—and robbed him of peace, love, and the humanity that connects all souls, even across lifetimes.

His spirit seeks redemption now. He knows that true power doesn’t require domination. That true privilege uplifts rather than oppresses. And that true faith is never rooted in fear.

The wound of slavery cannot begin to heal if we continue to reopen it—whether knowingly or unconsciously—through daily practices rooted in a painful past. Each time we glorify “soul food” without acknowledging its origins in survival, each time we discipline our children with the same tools once used to control, each time we overlook the spiritual traditions of our ancestors in favor of the religion that once justified their bondage—we unknowingly press salt into the wound.

On the other side, the wound festers in silence each time privilege built on slave labor is denied or dismissed. Every benefit drawn from generational wealth, every institutional advantage, every opportunity rooted in the unpaid labor of others—left unacknowledged—prolongs the ache.

Healing begins when we commit to the uncomfortable work of unlearning: unlearning inherited superiority, and also unlearning generational servitude. It begins when we honor the full truth of
our history—not just its victories, but its violations. Only then can we move toward wholeness—not as separate sides, but as one people reckoning, remembering, and rebuilding.

Question #6: How can individual people begin to make amends for systemic injustice put in place by their ancestors?

I’m not entirely sure there’s a single answer, but I do know that making amends begins with a willingness to sacrifice comfort for justice. The obvious place to start would be to embody the spirit of modern-day abolitionists or even modern-day hippies—people unafraid to disrupt the status quo in the name of equality and compassion.

To truly make amends, descendants of those who benefited from systemic injustice must first acknowledge that they’ve inherited not just wealth or status, but also a moral debt. And they must be willing to pay it forward—not in shame, but in service. This might mean using their influence to challenge systems that favor them. It might mean divesting from privileges that came at others’ expense.

But here’s the real question: Who among them is willing to risk losing inherited power, privilege, or prosperity for the sake of justice? To go against the grain of their lineage? Because making amends is more than a performance of empathy. It’s a courageous reordering of values—a revolutionary act of love.

Question #7: What role does faith play in Leaves From the Vine and why/how can faith and spiritual practices help people?

Faith is the heartbeat of Leaves From the Vine. The town of Charlestown itself is built on a foundation of faith, family, and fellowship—where the Big Church stands not only as a place of
worship but as the town’s schoolhouse, meeting hall, and sacred ground. It’s quite literally the center of their lives. So when young Jones Jr. begins to question his Christian beliefs, it shakes
the town to its very core.

But as the story unfolds, we see how each character is tested. Jones Jr. must find faith in himself to lead the church when his father falls ill. Mrs. Jones clings to her unwavering faith that her son is still alive, even when others doubt. The twin sisters, Anna and Annie, draw on their shared faith in each other to face the nightly hauntings.

Every soul in Charlestown is pushed to their limit—but it’s their faith, especially faith in the power of love, that ultimately breaks the curse.
Faith helps people by creating a sacred space for love and joy to dwell—even when the world outside feels harsh or unkind. It serves as a spiritual retreat, a quiet refuge from life’s noise and cruelty.

When doubt clouds the mind and uncertainty shakes the soul, faith becomes the balm that steadies us. It reminds us that we’re not alone. That there’s something greater, something divine, that holds
us even when we can’t hold ourselves. Faith gives people something to believe in, especially when belief in themselves feels like too much to carry. It softens the edges of pain and sharpens our vision for hope.

At its most tender, faith teaches us gratitude—for the small mercies, the everyday miracles, and the unseen grace that carries us forward.

Question #8: Why did you write this book and what do you hope to accomplish with Leaves From the Vine?

I wrote this book because I began to sense that I was simply the messenger—entrusted with a story that needed to be told. Over time, it felt less like something I was creating and more like something I was uncovering. I came to see myself as a voice for my great-great-grandfather, someone whose truth had long been buried. Through me, he could finally speak—offering confession, seeking redemption, and hoping for peace. In telling his story, I also hoped to bring healing to his descendants, including myself, and perhaps offer a mirror for others to reflect on their own generational wounds.

This book is my personal call to courage. I hope it inspires others to bravely uncover their own family stories—the ones hidden in silence or shame. I want readers to feel empowered to confront the spiritual and emotional battles their ancestors may have left unresolved. My hope is to awaken a generation that seeks healing with humility, gives and receives love with openness, and chooses to leave behind a legacy rooted in truth, honor, and redemption. If this story stirs
even one person to begin that journey, then it has done its work.

Question #9:Who are some of the authors you admire?

I admire Iyanla Vanzant for her bold, unapologetic voice and her willingness to speak from personal experience. In books like Yesterday, I Cried and In the Meantime, she holds herself
accountable for her own shortcomings, and that honesty creates space for true healing. I respect that she doesn’t just “preach” to her readers—she walks the talk and invites others to do the same.

I also admire Caroline Myss, particularly for her work in Sacred Contracts, where she introduces the idea that each of us is born with twelve core archetypes that shape our purpose and path. Her teachings helped me recognize the unconscious roles I’ve played and the agreements my soul may have made before coming into this life. That framework has been key to understanding both personal and ancestral patterns.

Don Miguel Ruiz, through his book The Four Agreements, helped me embrace a liberating perspective—especially the powerful lesson of not taking things personally. That one idea alone has protected my peace more times than I can count.

Lastly, I admire Eckhart Tolle for his deeply grounded spiritual wisdom and his conversational approach to writing. The Power of Now is structured as a dialogue, which feels intimate and
refreshing—especially for those of us raised in spaces where questioning was discouraged. His work helped me come home to the present moment and discover freedom in simply being.

Each of these authors has been a guidepost on my own spiritual healing journey, and their work quietly echoes through the pages of Leaves From the Vine.

T.A. Ahrens’ Leaves from the Vine may be ordered here.